


Prufrock

by TaraethysHolmes



Series: Criterion [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Hurt, Loneliness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 07:47:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15792165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaraethysHolmes/pseuds/TaraethysHolmes
Summary: "In the room the women come and goTalking of Michelangelo." - T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred PrufrockSilently, Mycroft Holmes slides through the night. He is alone, and monsters are clawing through his head, and tearing his chest apart.Mycroft Holmes ghosts through London, and awaits an epiphany, as his courage drains out through three-thousand pound shoes.





	Prufrock

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mottlemoth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/gifts).



> Fair warning, there are quite a few literary references in this, both oblique and explicit. So I've included an explanation of the references and why they are there at the end in my Author's Notes, so once you're done reading maybe that'll give anyone who doesn't get them somewhere to go.

** Prufrock **

_Let us go then, you and I,_

_When the evening is spread out against the sky_

_Like a patient etherized upon a table;_

_Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,_

_The muttering retreats_

_Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels_

_And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:_

_Streets that follow like a tedious argument_

_Of insidious intent_

_To lead you to an overwhelming question ..._

_Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”_

_Let us go and make our visit._

***

            ‘Charles?’ Mycroft didn’t like the slightly unsure note in his voice. It was uncommon for him, to be sure, and he was entirely certain that the driver would not be able to hear it in his voice. But _he_ could. And is it not one’s own opinion of oneself that, in the end, matters most?

            And he did not particularly care for what _that_ implied about his thoughts.

            ‘Sir?’ Mycroft’s rapidly spiralling thoughts were stopped by the sound of Charles’ voice.

            ‘Stop here.’

            ‘Certainly, sir.’

            The car smoothly drew to a halt, pulling up next to the kerb, nothing more than a dark shadow sitting on the edge of the road.

            Charles made to get out of the car and open the door for Mycroft, but Mycroft got out before he could.

            Long, pale fingers shook as they hoisted their owner’s somewhat larger bulk out of the car, and onto the dark street, standing in the centre of a pool of yellow light, cast by the overhead street lamps. Mycroft’s features, regal in their formation and shape, harshly bathed in yellow, shadows playing over high cheekbones and eagle-sharp nose.

            ‘Sir?’ Before Mycroft could close the car door once more, Charles’ voice came from inside, a querulous, worried note threading through the northern vowels. ‘Will you be alright?’

            ‘I shall be fine,’ replied Mycroft, briskly, trying for annoyance and perhaps falling a little short from his usual commanding, domineering tone.

            Charles didn’t notice the difference.

            ‘Very well, sir. Should you need me again this evening, simply call.’

            ‘Of course.’

            The door was slammed shut with perhaps less force than usual, but Charles, again, didn’t notice the difference. There were perhaps two people on the Earth who could recognise what they were seeing for what it truly was.

            The car slid away from the kerb in a silent hum and purr of expensive engines, sliding off into the night like some sort of phantom presence.

            Mycroft let out a slow breath, and then inhaled once more.

            The scent of London filled his lungs, the heavy scent of smoke and car exhaust, the scent of people and life and purpose. It was a scent that was bitter, and heavy, like the air before a storm washes away the dirt and rabble in life.

            There was no such chance for cleansing this evening.

            The evening sky pinned to the heavens like a butterfly on a table, ready for examination by doctors and scientists, ready like a body for dissection for his brother to stick his fingers into, tear apart and pull the heart out of to lay bare on a board. To peer at with fascinated eyes and ask question upon question and receive naught.

            He is Prospero, now, with a staff and magic weaving about his figure, strong and silent in the mists of the island.

            Turning, briskly, Mycroft meandered in the general direction he had intended to go. Resolve filled his veins like so much bitter, harsh poison, buoying him and dragging him down as a demon from hell. Down, down, down they were taking him, and up, up, up he was rising on wings of the finest feathers. Wings of resolve and heartache and years upon years of nothing more than the thought of one day. One day, perhaps, he shall have the strength.

            Today, tonight, perhaps he shall have the strength.

            Drained and lost, the words of his sister and brother and mother and father echoing through the halls of a brilliant mind, bouncing around and refusing to leave and…

            Enough.

            Yellowing fog, grey weaving through like strands of hair on the head of a brave man, sits high on the horizon, a threat of morning. This part of town is lighter. The voices from the main street may still be heard, the voices of those stumbling home from the bar, or the club. Those who would wake later in the day with regret in their minds and their features.

            Ignoring the one lonely, cowardly man meandering through the cobweb of streets.

            The houses are dark, there is no one awake. Perhaps it is easier this way.

            His feet carry him through the darkened passages, past the darkened cars, through the darkened shadows. His face, cast in darkness and light, a play on features of harsh cruelty and the softest kindness. Perhaps more astonishing.

            Darkness follows him like a dog, rubbing along his legs and licking up his sides. He is cloaked in it, bathed in its sweet sacrament and this is no way to spend his life. And yet he is of these dogs, he is of these wolves. The man in the darkness, the shadowy puppet master. The ventriloquist, holding the dummy on a knee and waiting for it to speak. Telling it to speak and forcing it to do so. Planting words and actions in its mouth and body and forcing them to be carried out.

            Time, time, time. There is nothing here now but time. Time for this man to meander the streets, time for him to wallow in alleys. Time for him to watch in darkness, to watch those who play in the light, with their silver hair and tanned skin, with their curls and delusions of grandeur, their judgement and critique and knowledge that all in life he may be thanked for.

            Stars glimmer overhead like a thousand eyes bearing down upon him. Eyes do not watch him – that is what the darkness is for. But under the shimmering rain of a thousand eyes glaring at him from the heavens…

            Mycroft has never felt this before. That is for certain. For if there is one certainty in this moment it is that.

            He is a man of confidence and courage, he is a man built of Hamlets and MacDuffs, the brave Lancelots and the righteous Arthurs. He is a leader built of Alexanders, an analyst built of Newtons, a tactician built of Ghengis Khans.

            But brown eyes and grey hair strike him down from the shadowy pillars, pull him screaming to Earth and crying out; _“Blow winds, blow, and crack your cheeks.”_ For here are the perfumes of Arabia still. Beware; for I am fearless, and therefore powerful.

            Curled hair, icy eyes and striking his heart with the constant bedevilments brought down upon him. Condemn him to years of the bleakest hell; for Hell is empty and all the devils are here.

            So much time. Too much time.

            This man of darkness and cleverness, of words and knowledge and power. This infallible god-of-a-man has made an error. There is a glitch in the system, a speck of dirt in the microchip. Grinding away and pulling apart the motherboard.

            For does he dare disturb the universe?

            Does he dare to ask? Does he dare to question?

            The time wandering the streets, the time wallowing in the puddles on the corner of roads. All walking down death row towards that which is his final destination.

            This he has known before. This Mycroft has known already. Standing on the precipice, ready to make the decision that could bring him all. Perhaps a certain love, and here unto all is known.

            It is perhaps the curve of a shoulder or the edge of a grin. It is perhaps the smallest moments of chagrin. The shining light, bathing its owner in brilliance while the shadow looks on and envies what he cannot have.

            Eve in the garden, peering across at the brilliant, reflective surface of a bright apple. The snake of Lucifer coiling around her neck. Strangling her, stealing her voice, sending her down into the grottoes at the bottom of the ocean. Her sisters, singing from the waves before she turns to sea foam and is swept away by a whirlpool of denial and regret and hatred. Envy of what could have been.

            Through the dark, through narrowed streets. Through the smaller and smaller gaps between buildings, between these bustling hubs of life, breathing out the silent sighs of the quiet before dawn.

            A certain gnawing; a gaping monster’s clawing at his chest. A monster crawling through his lungs and between his ribs, up his throat and coiling in his empty stomach. Growling out a song of denial and regret and hatred, gobbling up all his confidence and poise like a child on Christmas morning.

            This monster’s words rattling about inside his head.

            He should have done better.

            He should have done more.

            He could have done more.

            He is very limited.

            He is overweight and a poor man’s Sherlock. He belongs to the men lacking moral fibre, those who are cowardly and weak and pursue power, flocking to it like moths to a lantern. He has not the bravery of Lancelot, he has not the resolve of Joan. He has none of the courage and compassion and kindness of a human.

            Rattling around in there and they never stop. They simply never stop.

            All these creatures sleep so easy, now in the silence before dawn. All these people guarded and safe, in the arms of loved ones and of life, paying no mind to the poorly man with demons rattling around inside an enormous head, bouncing around and never, ever leaving him be. Everything is larger than they could ever know.

            For he can see it and be brave for it. He can be the Hamlet, he can be fucking Hercules if he wants to.

            Yet here comes Ophelia with short grey locks and kind smiles, here comes Clyde to steal him away. Now comes his Julia, to pull Big Brother down to the ground with a flick of tanned fingers and twinkling eyes.

            Afraid. Afraid like the blood pumping through his veins when his brother chose to pull him apart from the inside out. Afraid like the sound of screeching and cannibals licking their chops on the other side of the glass. Pressing up against it like lions awaiting a meal.

            Howling Moriarty, risen from hell to drag him down. Paradise lost, and none is won.

            Now he is not Hamlet. He is not MacDuff or Alexander or Lancelot or Arthur. He is no Khan, no longer is he Joan or Newton. Now he is the man leaning over their shoulders, whispering in their ears. He is the man dancing for their pleasure, the fool with many words and much waffling and nothing more to say than the weather that day.

            Closer, closer.

The umbrella swinging by his side, his cane, his dependence, his lean-upon in lost times. The silent sounds of a city asleep, the quiet sounds of an apartment in the distance.

            It is too quiet. As it should be.

            Drawing to a close, standing out the front of the place he intended to go, and the building is silent. The window is dark – not a hint of life. The door so inconspicuous, dark and simple, wooden with a name’s announcement smeared over the knocker.

            Time. Time.

            He draws closer than ever before, reaching out to rest a single finger on the bronzed knocker, ready to raise it, even at this time of the morning. Unsure of his welcome but unwelcome any other place. For now, he shall go into shame, and be silent. Silent and stoic, as he always has been. Awaiting his brother’s askance, awaiting his brother’s needs and questions and hoping, in return, for the smallest scrap to ease his loneliness.

            The smallest scrap from curls and delusions of grandeur.

            Mycroft will grow old, now. He will grow old and sad and lonely, even more so than he is now. He shall release his reins and sink back into the blackness and darkness. Smaller questions, for he now knows he has not the bravery to face the larger ones. He has not the bravery to ask the questions he wants to ask.

            These questions that may have saved him. Perhaps they may have saved him from this but now he shall never know. He shall never know that smile, the curve of those shoulders and the thrumming of that heartbeat under a warm, manly chest.

            He has already lingered here far too long, and now he must be gone. Now he must fade into the shadows for enough, now, and time.

            He must not linger on the edge of the boat, he must tie himself to the mast and stick his fingers in his ears, for he cannot be dragged by the grey Siren’s song. He cannot dive over the edge of the boat. For if he jumps then he will surely fall. Surely the grey Siren shall turn into a malicious angel judging the demon for his inadequacies. He shall be struck down like so much rubbish, consigned to the lonely existence he deserves, always destined to stare at the wonder of that which he has wished for all his life.

            He has no right.

            And turning, on one heel, is both the hardest and most cowardly, easiest thing he has ever done. Better he falls back into darkness and obscurity, a quiet purr of a motor humming up beside these children’s playgrounds, with their dead bodies and doctors and cases, an umbrella unfolding overhead, a faceless man in a suit who solves problems for those who need it. For those who have curls and delusions of grandeur, for those with grey hair and kind smiles, and for those with daughters and wives seeking to cause trouble. Those parents who expect of him nothing less than the best, which he has been relegated to an inability to deliver.

            He shall be alright.

            He shall be alone, at the edge of a world who needs him but never truly _wants_ him, a bystander to those whose happiness he has given and does not deserve for himself.

            And those grey-haired Sirens and black curls, those doctors and daughters and wives shall fade into the distance like the ends of the stories written in books on his shelves. There for him to see and read, to care for but never to participate in.

            For now, he is a coward. Now, and forever, it seems.

***

_I have seen them riding seaward on the waves_

_Combing the white hair of the waves blown back_

_When the wind blows the water white and black._

_We have lingered in the chambers of the sea_

_By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown_

_Till human voices wake us, and we drown._

***

            ‘Mycroft!’

**Author's Note:**

> References, and Author's commentary on their use:
> 
> T.S. Eliot - The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock  
> I think this one's fairly obvious. This piece is entirely based on the poem Prufrock, comparing Mycroft and Prufrock, but is probably a little less bleak. In Eliot's poem, there is a lack of hope at the end, Prufrock is relegated to societal needs and expectations, and Mycroft is about to do the same, of course, but unlike Prufrock does have a small scrap of hope at the end. 
> 
> Shakespeare - Various works  
> Hamlet and Macbeth references are also fairly obvious, but probably the Lear reference; "Blow winds, blow, and crack your cheeks" a little less so. I used this to thematically comment on Mycroft's conflicted thoughts at this point. He's trapped between reality and fantasy at the moment, and beginning to think his hope and resolve was nothing more than fantasy. He's losing hope so... Lear, Shakespeare's lovely commentary on the futility of humanity. And then there's the reference to Lady Macbeth's famous speech: "Here's the smell of blood still, all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand..." Again, the idea of conflict between reality and fantasy, and for Mycroft, the division between what's real and what isn't. And the other quote; "Hell is empty..." from the Tempest, linking back to the reference to Prospero and providing contrast to Mycroft's comparing himself to Prospero at the start. 
> 
> Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley - Frankenstein  
> Quote; "Beware; for I am fearless, and therefore powerful." shows that Mycroft is beginning to compare himself not to Victor Frankenstein himself, but to the monster instead. The reference to Paradise Lost also links to this, as it is referenced quite a bit by Shelley in Frankenstein. 
> 
> John Milton - Paradise Lost  
> Paradise Lost is twelve books long. I don't recommend reading it. I had to once, for an essay, and it was easily the most pointless thing I've ever done. But it is a commentary on the monster vs. the man, a telling of the classical Genesis myth of Adam and Eve and Lucifer's fall from heaven. Mycroft, when he references the title, is comparing himself to Lucifer, and Eve at the same time. Again, that confusion between what he believes to be his fantasy and what he believes to be his reality. He wants to be Eve, swept away by his Adam, but believes himself to be Satan instead. 
> 
> Homer - The Odyssey  
> Again, fairly obvious, the reference to the Sirens from the Odyssey and how Mycroft wishes to supposedly figuratively tie himself to the mast and plug his ears so he won't be tempted, because he doesn't believe he has the right. 
> 
> Hans Christian Anderson - The Little Mermaid  
> Mixing up the Paradise Lost and the Little Mermaid allusions, this reference again speaks to Mycroft's confusion, and disorientation. He's dealing with something unfamiliar, outside his purview, namely emotions, and so he lacks the clarity to do so, beginning to mix up his allusions at this point in his worrying and sadness. 
> 
> I think that pretty much covers it. If I missed anything, or if anyone sees a reference I called obvious and they want me to explain it further, please leave a comment. I love reading the comments you all leave for me. 
> 
> Also, the ending is yours to see how you wish. I'd love to see your theories about what it means in the comments below. It means one thing for me, but it might mean something else entirely for someone else.


End file.
